


give the past a slip

by brodayhey



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Cheating, M/M, Podcast, Vague History, brief mentions of Myra Kaspbrak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 08:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13096014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodayhey/pseuds/brodayhey
Summary: On his way to a live show for his popular podcast, Richie stumbles into a person from his past. He remembers.





	give the past a slip

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first it fic, and it is completely un-beta'd, so any errors are mine. i'm realizing i'm a little late to this party, but bear with me, haha. this is a grotesque combination of it (2017) and tidbits of the parts of the book i wish the movie had included  
> this takes place once the losers club of it (2017) are adults, during the late winter of 2015. so put yourself around a year and a half before mike calls everyone back to derry. i hope y'all enjoy it :-)

He waited outside the B Terminal in Laguardia Airport, backpack bunching his winter coat uncomfortably at the armpit. It had been a balmy 78 degrees in Los Angeles when he left in the afternoon, and now he was wearing the lined denim jacket reserved for his brief visits home over a too-thin tee shirt. Too thin for this January New York City weather, anyway. He was 39 going on 40, and his bright blue Swedish backpack was tipping dangerously over the line between trendy and immature. But then, that was his whole career, wasn’t it? Keeping an eye on his dinged up roller suitcase so no one could reach down and grab it in the busy crush of people, Richie Tozier pulled his vape out of his coat pocket and inhaled a deep breath of artificial fruit flavor. He wondered idly where his ride was.

Richie had gone to UMA Bangor, barely scraping by with C’s for a Communications degree. He had done his best to get out of Maine, and found himself in Los Angeles in the winter of ‘02. He initially had the idea of becoming a comedian. He did okay in the stand up scene, but it didn’t really replace his day job as a stocker in a grocery store. He would try to give people their chucks by night, but by day he was lining up Tampax boxes on shelves and banned from using the store intercom. It wasn’t until around ‘08 that he really found his tune. Podcasts. Radio for your pocket. Starting out with a handful of impressions and accents, a propensity for dramatic storytelling, and the microphone on the Dell he had opted for buying instead of a car, Richie was a pioneer for the medium.

His podcast was called “On the Record”, and the premise was interesting enough to garner him a loyal following in his first few years doing it. A BA in Communications required skills in research, and Richie did just that. Using his old school login information that, for some reason, still allowed him into the databases paid for by the University of Maine, Richie passed the time at his day job. In between helping older ladies find the clearly labeled cereal aisle, or showing teenagers with their eyes ringed in black where the cosmetic section was, Richie fiddled around on the desktop in the back of the shop. He would research certain points in history or pop culture, and create in depth notes. When he recorded, he took on a persona of the era, and explained a topic in depth. The point of his podcast was to have an interesting historical concept described to the listener by a character who lived through it.

At first, it was just a fun project to do on the side while he waited for his stand up career to take off. But then, something interesting happened. He got famous. Whatever he was doing struck a chord with people. Dozens of loyal listeners every week turned into hundreds, and those hundreds turned into thousands. It wasn’t fame like he was a movie star, or a musician. No one really knew his face. But they knew his voice. Or rather, the various voices he put on. Almost 80,000 people a week were downloading his 45-minute long episodes, leaving raving reviews, and recommending it to their friends. He had side projects getting the same amount of attention, podcasts, video game streaming channels, and joke-music that he made with his friends. Soon, he was having companies contacting him to make advertisements for him at the midpoint of his episodes. He was a guest on late night talk shows, where people paid to see him and better known comedians yes-and each other for an hour on a Tuesday night. People were making animatics of his best bits, or drawing fanart of the different voices and characters he made up for his show. He had been recently shown a blogging platform, where he apparently had a loyal following of teenaged girls and boys. He was in talks with a major studio for a television season. Most importantly, he was finally able to tell his parents about this project of his. It wasn’t just him cursing into a microphone and talking about history for a few quarters of an hour. It was him cursing into a microphone that people actually  _ listened  _ to. Venues, not just in Los Angeles, but all over the United States and some parts of Canada, were reaching out to him for live shows. 

That was why he was in New York City. A rather well-known comedian had asked him to open up for her at a rather well-known club across from the Chelsea. Richie had leapt upon the opportunity as soon as it presented itself. Especially since it put him on the same side of the country as his parents. He didn’t make it for Thanksgiving and wouldn’t for Christmas, but at least he was able to make an appearance between the two holidays. Richie was beating himself up as he waited, realizing that he probably should have printed out the information that the venue had sent him over email. The venue had booked a ride for him and, not noticing anyone holding up a tablet with his name typed up on it, Richie had placed himself outside of the main flow of traffic and waited somewhat nervously for aforementioned tablet (or hell— a piece of paper, maybe) to show up. Rather than just getting excited over this live show, he probably should have paid more attention to the details. That being said, the live show wasn’t for another couple of hours. Though he had packed a costume to wear tonight, there was nothing stopping him from wearing the clothes she was wearing. So, he wasn’t pressed for time, and he didn’t mind a crowd. He was in a smoking area, inhaling second hand cigarette smoke (he had given them up), puffing on his vape (which hadn’t killed anyone yet), and people watching . He felt justified in slightly judging all the travellers bustling pass, because of course, they were judging him too.

Richie was aware that he didn’t dress appropriately for his age. Then again, an almost-forty year old who went alternatively by the names Richie and Records couldn’t be expected to dress appropriately. While most men his age were settling down and/or having children, Richie’s main profit source was fake internet radio where, more often than not, he slapped on a corny British accent and called it a day. He wore slightly tight rock band shirts that fit a lot better when he was in the lower range of the thirties and had less money for weed and the inevitable munchies that followed. His jeans were stylishly ripped. He wore the same kind of beat up skate shoes he had worn as a kid during New England summers. The trendy backpack he wore over his coat had an, “ironic, I swear” pot leaf ironed onto it, and a pin he had grabbed on a bender a few years ago that read “I ❤ Venice Beach” jammed into its fabric. The one adult thing he owned was at his feet, a roller suitcase his mother had insisted on buying him when he moved away from home after college. The adult-ness of it was shrouded by a fat cloud of candy-flavored vapor, however.

It was through the aforementioned cloud that Richie finally saw his ride. His contacts a little dried out from the long plane ride, he could read the large letters of his name printed largely and neatly on a piece of poster board. Richard Tozier, yes sir, call me Richie. Hold the Dick. The driver was small and a little mousey, his dark hair greying but hidden under a neat little cap. He wore wire framed glasses, a little bit too big for his face. But with the stature of this driver, probably anything would be too big for his face. Richie noticed that the driver’s shoes were a lot nicer than any he owned, and well taken care of. He suddenly became hyper aware of the hole burned into his sneaker, the product of a dropped cigarette six or seven years ago. Though he made enough money to buy ten pairs of sneakers that didn’t have burn holes in them, he preferred these. Still, he was a little embarrassed. He pulled up the handle of his suitcase, rolling it behind him.

When Richie walked up, the driver flashed a brief smile. “Mr. Tozier?” he asked, his high voice complimenting his mousey looks. Richie noticed that the hands gripping the sign were very well manicured.

“Call me Richie,” he replied brightly. “Where are you parked?”

“Just outside,” the driver said. 

Richie followed the driver, whose suit either implied an obsessive compulsiveness for neatness or a very well-paid dry cleaner. Maybe both. The driver, empty handed since Richie insisted on carrying his own luggage, stuck his hand in his pocket as they approached a shiny black Lexus. With a click on the key fob, the trunk of the car slid smoothly open. Richie slung his suitcase in and, when the driver insisted on shutting the trunk himself, got into the back seat. Though this was not the first time Richie had been driven to a venue like this, not by a long shot, he never got used to sitting in the backseat of a car while someone drove him. Not as an adult, at least. Getting chauffeured made him feel like a little kid again. The driver got into the front seat and started the car. And Richie, because he was himself, started to talk.

Great weather, huh? Little cold for my tastes, sunny California and all. Ayuh, been living there since ‘02, got myself set up real pretty. What do I do out there? Well, you well-manicured driver you, ever heard of a podcast? No? Well, why don’t I look like a pretentious tool as I explain it to you! Thank god Richie was doing an On the Record liveshow, and not the Dungeons and Dragons podcast he did on the side with a few of his buddies. Imagine explaining that to a normal looking guy you had to spend the next twenty minutes in an enclosed area with. 

“How long have you been driving?” Richie asked at one point.

The driver kept his eyes firmly on the road. Very professional, Richie noted. “Since I was fourteen. The law says you have to be fifteen to get a driver’s permit where I’m from, but where I’m from is too small to be bothered by a little law like that.”

There was more to that story it seemed, as the driver opened his mouth to continue, but then decided not to. But he wouldn’t press. Richie nodded. What the driver talked about was very similar to where he grew up. It seemed like people got away with a lot more in Derry than they really should have. “I only started driving once I was in my second year of college. I don’t think my parents trusted me behind a wheel.”

The driver laughed. Slightly. It was more like blowing air through his nose. “I guess it's a good thing I’m driving then.”

“I guess so.”

The traffic was pretty bad, it being around lunch time in New York City. The driver asked Richie if he minded if he put music on.

“I’ll never say no to music,” Richie replied.

For about ten minutes, then, the two men rode together in relative silence. Some classics played on the radio. Or rather, classics to a kid that grew up on MTV. Lauper, Dire Straits, Styx, etc. Stuff Richie would have played on a show if he was an actual radio star, rather than a podcast one. The only sounds in the car were REO Speedwagon and Richie remarking on a building, or the weather, or what a person on the street was wearing. The driver laughed when Richie said something witty or charming. Or maybe laugh is the wrong word, as he just blew air out of his nose harsher than usual. And occasionally, when Richie cracked a joke, the driver just stared straight ahead at the road. Other than that, though, the driver did not continue conversation. Richie supposed that was fair enough. Drive all day, and drive idiots like Richie Tozier around, no wonder you wouldn’t want to have that much of a conversation conversation. And less conversation means less chance of offending someone, which means a bigger tip. And people like Richie didn’t necessarily need a conversational partner. Some people just liked to hear themselves talk.

“How much do you get paid to do this?” Richie asked. Maybe it was an impolite question, but he saw himself as an upfront person.

“I’m not getting paid,” the driver replied. In the silence that followed, he realized how sketchy that sounded. With a small laugh, another one of those sharp nose-blows, he said, “Not that this is slave labor, or anything. I own this chauffeur company, so I’m not really getting paid by the hour, you know.”

“Ayuh,” Richie said. He had been fronting in his Settled Adult Californian voice, but slid into the lingo of his youth suddenly. Something about this Lexus just made that staple of Maine speech leap out of his mouth. He brushed off the thought. “That makes more sense. When did you start this chauffeuring business?”

The driver hummed low in his throat. “A little before 9/11, I guess. At first it was just me and the car I got when I graduated from college. My mom’s real overprotective, wanted me to have the best car I could. So I wouldn’t get hurt, I guess, by poor craftsmanship. Anyway, my old, er, roommate told me people would pay money to ride around in as nice a car as I had. And things kind of escalated from there.”

“Do you just drive Lexuses?” Richie asked, curious.

“Oh, no,” the driver replied. “We have Cadillacs, limousines, Rolls Royce. We do a lot of weddings, bachelorette parties. Celebrities. You’re the first podcaster we’ve had though. Is that the correct term?”

“Yup, that it is,” Richie said. “Do you have any trouble from things like Uber, Lyft, whatever?”

“Not so much. Uber is just fine, I use it on occasion. But sometimes, people just like to be driven around in style.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Silence descended over the car again, and Richard Tozier was not a fan. He opened his mouth again. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.” He couldn’t see the driver, but it was obvious that he was smiling wryly. “I’m Edward.”

“Edward,” Richie said. That name tickled something in the back of his head. Like he was forgetting something important. “Where are you from, Ed?” Something felt off about calling him Ed. As soon as the syllable was out of his mouth, Richie regretted it. As someone who gave a nickname to about anything he saw that moved— or even things that didn’t move— the sensation was an odd one.

“Why do you ask?” Eddie turned right onto Eighth Avenue. If he felt anything odd about being called Ed, he didn’t show it. Maybe it was just him. Then, with a touch of panic, Richie realized that they were probably getting pretty close to his destination. And then he wondered why he was so panicked about this car ride with a complete stranger ending earlier than he wanted it to. He felt like someone had stuck cotton in his mouth, in his head. Everything was a little fuzzy. He just knew he needed to stay in this car until he figured something out.

“Well, you mentioned being able to drive a little bit earlier than what was strictly legal.” Richie kept his voice level, though something inside him made his voice want to go a little shrill. There was something important he was forgetting, he just knew it. It wasn’t the forgetting of say, a toothbrush on a long trip. Or an extra pair of underwear. It was something life changing. “Just reminded me a little bit of where I grew up.”

“It’s a little town you’ve probably never heard of.” Richie almost felt like the words were plucked out of his mind. “It’s called Derry. In Maine.”

“Oh shit.” Richie swore. He locked eyes with the driver in his rearview mirror. He took in the mousey nose, the mouth that felt like it was permanately pursed in displeasure. It was endearing. “Eds.”

At that word, the Lexus stopped its smooth course down Manhattan streets. The driver pulled over, cutting two or three cars off in the process. Amidst their honking, he parked the car and turned the key, shutting the engine off. Two hands, a few seconds prior gripping the wheel confidently, looked as if they were shaking slightly. The driver twisted around in his seat, and blinked almost drunkenly at Richie. His small yet expressive eyes looked somewhat disoriented, but there was something approaching recognition in them. He took of the smart little cap that kept his greying hair in place. He opened his mouth slightly, and then closed it again. Richie opened his to say something else, anything else, because it was fucking  _ Eddie, _ Eddie Kaspbrak, pill-popping extraordinair, purporter of fanny packs and champion to all short-shorts wearers, one of his best friends in the whole world, and how could he ever forget about Eddie Spaghetti and—

“I told you not to call me that,” he snapped. Like a reflex. His eyes were still disoriented.

“Oh shit,” Richie repeated, dumbly. He reached a shaking hand forward, to grab the shoulder of the man in driver’s seat. Eddie grabs at his hand before it touches his shoulders. For a moment, Richie thinks he’s going to hold his hand. Instead, Eddie is tracing a scar on his hand. One that hadn’t been there when Richie got into the car. The image of Stan Uris, his head all bandaged up, handing him a shard of a broken Coke bottle, is stark in his mind. When Eddie looks up and meets Richie’s eyes again, Richie can tell he is thinking of the same thing.

“I didn’t recognize you,” Eddie says, scrubbing his face with his hand, knocking his glasses and hat askew. “No buck teeth. No glasses.”

“No glasses,” Richie repeated. Even though that definitely wasn’t the reason he didn’t recognize Eddie when he walked up to him. Though nearly two decades had passed since he had last seen his childhood friend, he still looked essentially the same. Still small, pale, permanently looking like he just got over a cold. Yet for some reason, there had been no recognition until he spoke the name of their hometown. “Jesus, I don’t think that was it.”

“I…” Eddie trailed off. “I need to get out of this car.”

Without looking at the traffic passing by his door, Eddie got out of the driver’s seat. Watching the traffic go angrily past, Richie thought it a miracle that Eddie or his car door did not get hit. By the time Richie got out of the car himself, Eddie was perched on the curb, probably staining his nice slacks with the grime on the sidewalk, wheezing most worryingly.

“Are you okay?” Richie asked. He is twelve years old, squatting in the Barrens with one of his best friends who may or may not be dying from his asthma attack. But he is also almost forty, too old to be on his knees on a New York City sidewalk. It was cold, it smelled slightly like piss, and he needed a thicker jacket. Maybe a hat. The memories kept blindsiding him, and he could see why Eddie was hyperventilating.

“My inhaler is in the glove box,” he wheezed.

Richie shot up, and opened the car door to the passenger side. Or tried to. It was locked, and he yanked at the handle several times until Eddie unlocked it. He rifled through the glove box until his hand closed around an oblong object. Inhaler technology must have improved since 1989. The apparatus was much more streamlined than what Richie remembered. As he handed the device to Eddie, he said, “I thought you didn’t need that anymore. Placebos, or whatever.”

There were tears streaming down Eddie’s face. “Shut up, trashmouth,” he gasped. He took a pull on the inhaler, and breathed out smoothly, deeply. They sat there on the curb for a few moments, waiting for Eddie to get his breath back. After a while, Eddie looked at Richie. “I forgot.”

“Me too,” Richie replied. It was like a switch had been flipped. Names he hadn’t heard in almost thirty years were popping into his head. Bill, Bev, Stan. Mike and Haystack. Niebolt. Ten minutes ago, he didn’t recognize Eddie. Now every fond and not-so-fond memory was bombarding him. Every sleepover, every panicked run from the Bowers gang. Richie going slower so he got the shit knocked out of him, instead of his asthmatic friend who probably couldn’t handle a kick to the ribs. Sharing popcorn (but not a Coke, because of the germs) at the Bijou, unwisely riding on handlebars down the hill into the Barrens. God, he remembered.

“Everything. Like, I forgot about my entire childhood and didn’t even notice.”

“I don’t remember—”

“Everything,” Eddie repeated. “There’s holes.”

“I remember It.”

Eddie nodded, staring down into his lap. Richie was a little worried that Eddie would start hyperventilating again. Or worse, maybe he would start hyperventilating. It had been in the back of his mind since that summer, but his brain had blocked it out. Or maybe It had blocked Itself out. There were traces of It in the things Richie did, however. His move from Derry, from the entire East coast. When he DM'd for his Dungeons and Dragons group, shapeshifters and werewolves were enemies that popped up pretty often. When he woke up in a cold sweat, next to a warm body, some scream or wracking sob left behind in his dream. That was It.

Eddie cursed.

“What’s wrong?” Richie asked. As if that question could be answered. His body shook with the horror of what they went through. His eyes felt like they were burning, whether that was because of dry contacts or because he was starting to cry, he could not tell. He asked what was wrong, as if there was anything right with the situation.

“It’s not even about— I’m supposed to drop you off at your hotel, get you situated, and drive you to the club. We’re on a schedule.”

The “we’re on a schedule, so get over it” was not spoken, but it was felt. Richie blinked. His eyes really were watering. With the wall of memories he had crashed into, work didn’t seem like a real thing anymore. His hotel room, his podcast, any of it. Eddie brought him back to reality, however. The world would not stop turning just because they had uncovered this dark part of their past. Life had to go on. Richie would have to don his costume, slap on his voice, and act like everything was right in the world. It was one thing to put on a voice to mask anxiety, depression, a hangover, whatever, when he called his mother. This was going to be an entirely different thing. A major performance, opening for a notable comedian. And Richie had to just completely ignore the fact that he spent the entirety of his last summer in junior high getting stalked by a murder clown. How could he think of being funny when he could feel the claws of an American werewolf wrapped around his skinny neck?

“ _ Richie _ .”

“Huh?” Richie asked, intelligently. He had to look up from his spot on the curb. Eddie had stood up, dusted himself off. His hat and glasses were on straight. There was no haunted look on his face, the same look which Richie was sure was painted all over his. Eddie held out one of his hands for Richie to grab, so he could haul himself up as well. When he did, Eddie was already walking to the other side of the car. Realizing that he meant to drive Richie the remaining block, or whatever it was to his hotel, Richie hopped into the passenger seat. Getting driven around from his perch in the back seemed a little backwards now.

“I called your name about seven times,” Eddie said, starting up the car. “You were starting to freak me out a little.”

“I was starting to freak you out,” Richie parroted. He wanted to moan out loud. Memories of the man sitting next to him, 13 years old and passed out with a broken arm on the floor of a fucking murder house, and Richie not responding to his name was the freaky thing. A town full of dead kids. Okay. Okay. Okay.

Eddie seemed to realize that Richie was zoning out again. “So you finally got a career out of your voices, trashmouth? Guess you proved all of us wrong.”

Richie laughed, a little hysterically. “Oh yeah, Eddie Spaghetti. I get paid $200 to read an advertisement as Kinky Briefcase, Sexual Accountant. That’s a career if I ever knew the definition of the word.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie said. “Honestly, I’m almost forty years old. Call me Eddie, Edward, whatever. Cut the spaghetti.”

“Edward,” Richie said, grabbing Eddie’s arm with a weak grip. He had thrown on his best Southern Belle voice, and though his eyes were glued to the road, Richie batted his eyes for good measure. “A first name basis, what a scoundrel you are!”

“Jesus Christ,” was all Eddie had to say. Richie smiled. Maybe his brained wasn’t as fried as he thought it was.

Eddie slowed down as they approached the front of Richie’s hotel. Richie was feeling better than he had on the curb, but he still didn’t feel ready to get up, walk around, and pretend he was a British Boy Scout in a few short hours.

“Are you good to go up on your own?” Eddie asked. There was nothing teasing in his tone, but Richie felt defensive. He had done fine on his own in LA for over a decade, he had built his brand from the ground up. He could handle himself just the same, with these sudden memories pounding on the back of his skull.

“I’m fine. You can wait in the car.”

Eddie looked like he was going to argue, but instead popped the trunk open without a word. Richie grabbed his suitcase and rolled it into the hotel.

It didn’t take long to check in, or maybe Richie didn’t pay attention much as his brain processed all the new information running around in it. He just kept seeing things that reminded him of his friends. By the time he got his room key and his body into an elevator, his neck hurt from all the times he whipped it around. He saw a flash of red hair, and though it could be Beverly— or Bill, had he grown his hair out. A black man walked out of the restroom as Richie walked to the elevator and his serious expression was reminiscent of the one Mike carried when he was deep in thought. It was an expression that would actually fit him now, at the age they were all at now. The comedy club had booked him a ride with Eddie Kaspbrak by chance. Richie saw no reason why he couldn’t run into someone else from his youth.

“Christ,” Richie said to himself in the elevator. He hit the 5 button to go to his floor, and tugged at the strap of his bookbag.

Once in his room, he threw down his suitcase and dressed quickly. Khakis, a vest, a hat he bought from a secondhand outdoors shop that made him look like a dumbass. Most importantly, and though not period accurate to the person he was trying to portray, he wore a shirt with a silk screened image of himself petting Obaysch. Making sure his phone and his room key were in his backpack, Richie rushed back downstairs. Eddie was still waiting in the car.

The two men shared twin looks of slight disgust. Eddie, from the outfit Richie was wearing. Richie, because Eddie had been listening to Debbie Gibson.

“Get out of the 80’s, dude,” Richie said.

“You weren’t complaining about the tunes earlier,” Eddie pointed out. It was true. But there was a distinct difference between some Cyndi and Debbie Gibson. Or, there was if you asked Richie.

Richie buckled his seat belt. To be fair, he was singing along in his head. It just felt right to give Eddie shit for whatever he was doing. He remembered that being a very clear part of their relationship. “I’ll give you a pass, but only because it’s playing on the radio.”

“Oh yeah.” Eddie took his eyes off the road for a second to smile mockingly at Richard. What happened to you being a radio star?”

“You remember that?”

“I do now,” Eddie said, with a disbelieving laugh.

“Podcasting is a little bit like radio,” Richie explained. “So, I’m sort of living the dream. One might say.”

“One might say. What is your show about?”

Pretending to be offended, Richie sniffed loudly and brought a hand to his chest. “You mean you haven’t  _ heard  _ of me?” he cried.

Though It was obviously in the back of their heads, the car ride to the comedy club was not complete torture. Bad memories had returned of course. But not all of them at once. And there was good along with the bad. The two men talked briefly of their lives after they had left Derry, but mostly, their conversation was devoted to reminiscing. They mostly talked of Bill, though Eddie wondered what Stan was getting up to lately. Richie remarked that out of the seven of them, he was pretty sure Mike was the only one still in Derry. Eddie mentioned that he had been out shopping a few days ago, and had seen clothes marked with Beverly’s name. Though of course, he didn’t realize the significance until now. It felt like no time had passed at all by the time Eddie pulled up to the front of the comedy club. Across the street, the Chelsea hotel loomed over them.

“When are you done driving for the night?” Richie asked. He unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Well, I’m to pick you up at 10:30. And then I have to go home— to Myra,” he said, as an afterthought.

“Myra?” Richie asked. This name had not come up yet.

“My, uh, wife.”

“You’re married?” Richie found this astounding. Whether it was because there was a woman in the picture, or that Eddie had married her, or that he hadn’t mentioned her until now, it was astounding. It didn’t shock quite as much as all his memories returning to him, but it certainly contributed to the emotional rollercoaster Richie Tozier was currently a passenger on.

“Yeah. Five years, come April.”

“Holy shit, why didn’t you mention earlier?”

Eddie shrugged. “It just didn’t come up,” he said. Richie flicked his eyes over to the steering wheel, where Eddie’s hands still rested. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“Well, could you ditch Myra for a few hours? I feel like there are some things we need to talk about.”

“I agree,” Eddie replied. He dropped his hands into his lap, perhaps noticing that Richie had had his eyes on them. “I’ll come to your place around 11, how’s that?”

“Sounds absolutely daaahling,” Richie drawled, in his best High Society voice. To be fair, his High Society voice mostly sounded a lot like Bebe Glazer. Richie had been watching a lot of Frasier, as they had put it on Netflix recently. “I’ll keep a light on for you, Edward dear!” 

Before he shut the door on the Lexus, Eddie wished him good luck on his show. 

“Stars don’t need luck, Edward dear,” Richie replied with a grin. As soon as Eddie drove off, however, Richie slung off his backpack, stuck his face into the fabric, and let out a tiny scream. What a fucking night. With that, safari hat firmly planted around his ears, Richie Tozier walked into his first live show in New York City.

He could refer to it as a miracle that the show went well, but that just wouldn’t be true. Richie was good at making light of terrible situations. It was easier to joke around than to face your problems. It was his life’s mission to avoid his problems by slapping a voice on and avoid all his issues. So really, doing a live show while also dealing with traumatic childhood memories was no big deal at all. He had his outfit on, his best Frederick Russell Burnham impression going, and a laptop chock full of notes about hippopotamuses. He met with the crew at the club before he started, just to go over audio ins and outs. All he needed was a microphone and somewhere to rest his laptop. That was about it.

His name was announced promptly at 7:30, and the club filled with applause and cheering. Richie would never get used to that. To his surprise, when he walked out onto the stage, from what he could see, all the seats in the house were filled. It could be because of the big name of the woman he was opening for. Or maybe, these were all fans of him. He could pretend that was the case, at any rate. Richie sat down at a table and chair that had been set up, and pulled the microphone to his face. As he opened up his laptop, a spotlight was trained on him, and people started cheering again. His safari hat provided some shade from the harsh stage lights, but he was already sweating. He grinned into the crowd and spoke in his best impression of Minnesota frontiersman who found himself in the middle of a war between England and some Boers.

“Well y’see,” he said, taking a deep breath. “It all started when I first met the walking living breathing searing killing destroying torch of hate.” It all came easy, and the forty-five minutes passed quickly. Halfway through the show, he abandoned his notes entirely. When describing the water hyacinth threat, he grabbed the microphone and shot straight up out of his chair. Affecting his best Louisiana bayou slur, he described the menace of the pretty purple flowers. Stopping by his laptop only when he needed to quote a primary source, Richie roamed around the stage, pretending to be Burnham, Roosevelt, Broussard; all the other important characters in the story. Along with pantomime. By the time he was done, he was out of breath and drenched in sweat. He cleared his throat and started talking in his regular voice.

“Well, that’s it for the American Hippo Bill, guys.” For some reason, people laughed as he adopted his regular voice. He waited for their laughter to end, and resumed his closing spiel. “Sorry we didn’t have a happy ending this time, but come talk to me after the show and I’ll make that sour ending even worse!” He laughed, this time, along with the crowd. “And remember to check out my other podcast: Can I Vape to It?, where me and a guest critique music on the basis of whether or not you can do some  _ sweet  _ vape tricks to it.”

He closed his laptop and walked off the stage to more laughter. Not bad for his first show in New York City, and the people waiting backstage told him so. In the dark of the wings, he made his way to the bathroom, where he put on a fresh change of clothes. He splashed cold water on his face and the back of his neck. He kept the safari hat on. He checked his watch. There was an intermission, another show, and almost two hours of waiting for Eddie to come and pick him up. He pulled two things out of his bookbag: his cellphone and his vape. He tweeted a picture he had taken of himself in his full Burnham costume to his several thousands of followers, and took a drag from his vape.

A voice spoke from behind him. “Y’know, I thought the vape thing was a joke.”

Richie turned around, and met eyes with a young woman. Probably 5-10 years younger than him. He smiled. “Trust me, it is a joke.” To punctuate this, he took another drag.

“Do you know any?” she asked.

“Any what?”

“Vape tricks.” She grinned at him.

Richie laughed, pocketed his phone, and held out his hand. “I’m Richie.”

The woman took it. She continued her grip on his hand and gave him a look. Oh. “I heard. My name’s Carol.”

“Nice to meet you, Carol.” Had it been any other time, any other place, Richie probably would have pursued this Carol. As the other act went on, he would have gone with Carol to the bar, cracked a few jokes, done a few voices for her. Depending on the person he was drinking with, he would end up in their bed for the night, or they in his. But this was not any night. As soon as Richie got off stage, stopped distracting himself with his playacting, the reality of the world caught up with him again. He had met Eddie in a hired car. He, Eddie, and four of their friends had tried to kill evil when they were 13 in 1989, and they may or may not have actually succeeded. There were things to talk about, and Richie did not want a Carol to get mixed up with it all. And, his brain pointed out, he would be having Eddie in his bedroom tonight, anyhow. Richie quickly batted that thought away as he spoke again. “I hope you enjoy the next act.”

He then left the wings of the stage, to lean against the wall of the back of the room. There truly were no seats that he could take. He wondered idly how much money would be transferred into his bank account at the end of this.

He was waiting outside when Eddie pulled up in his black Lexus, shivering in his denim jacket and smelling. As he got into the car, Eddie sniffed.

“Did you run a marathon in there?” he asked.

“Har-de-har,” Richie said. “The show went great, thanks for asking.”

“Did it?” Eddie actually seemed interested. “Was it full?”

“Yes, of course it was. This is primo talent, baby,” Richie replied, slapping his chest. “I was, apparently, so funny that I could have gotten some afterwards. But I could not abandon my boy. The boy being, uh, you.” Richie vaguely mentioned Carol to see what Eddie would do. His only reaction, however, was to say,

“I doubt you could get any smelling like that. You’re taking a shower once we get to your room.”

“Fair enough,” Richie said. He noticed that Eddie had gone home and showered himself. His hair was wet, and he was out of the stuffy uniform he had been wearing when he picked Richie up in Laguardia. He was still dressed nicely, though, in dark jeans in a dark green sweater that was slightly baggy. With how pale Eddie was, his permanent eye bags, and the sweater overly large, it made him look like he had lost a lot of weight very fast. 

“What was your show about?”

Richie groaned inwardly. However, with equal gusto, or perhaps more gusto, than in his show, he described to Eddie the tragic history of H.R. 23621. By the time the Lexus was parked and Richie and Eddie were in Richie’s fifth floor room, Eddie knew way more about the Second Anglo-Boer War and Louisianan congressmen than he ever needed to.

“You just remember all that?” he asked, perched on the foot of Richie’s bed.

“I need notes in front of me to quote, like, primary sources. But all the info is in my head.”

“Cool,” Eddie said. He would have said more, but Richie had started to take his clothes off. He was still as skinny as he was when they were kids. “Can’t you do that in the bathroom?”

“Sorry to ruin your innocence,” Richie teased. He threw his shirt at Eddie’s head, then left him in the bedroom so he could take a shower. Richie didn’t think he smelled too terrible, but Eddie kept wrinkling his nose. He couldn’t deal with that for hours on end.

When Richie came out of the bathroom, he was wearing holey sweatpants, a shirt that read “Get High in Colorado”, his glasses, and his shaggy hair wrapped in a towel. He looked at Eddie sitting so upright on the foot of the bed, and noted just how far they had drifted apart since they were kids. Out of small town America, without bullies chasing them, a common cause to unite them, it boggled the mind to see the two men together.

“You vape?” Eddie asked, as soon as Richie walked back into the room.

“Why is everyone asking me that tonight?” Richie sat on the bed next to Eddie. He folded his long legs underneath himself. “Did you go through my bag?”

“No,” Eddie said. “I was stalking your twitter while you were in the shower, to see if you are as famous as you say you are.” Richie was suddenly reminded of every cringey tweet he had ever made in his life. “Why do you vape? You know, they don’t know the health risks associated with it. It’s like our grandparents didn’t know cigarettes were bad.”

“I know they don’t know, and I know that breathing in vapor that tastes like fruit is a fucking great time, thanks. And I  _ am  _ famous.”

“200k followers isn’t bad,” Eddie sniffed.

“I’m looking forward to 420k followers,” Richie told him, unable to resist himself. “It’s the funniest number.”

“How are you almost forty years old and still making weed jokes every other sentence?”

“It’s comedy, baby,” Richie said, very aware that he was sitting on a bed, his face a foot away from Eddie’s, and that he had just called Eddie baby. Eddie looked at him from underneath furrowed brows.

“Okay, so, elephant in the room,” he said. “We need to tell everyone else.” He said it almost like a question.

“Or here’s a thought,” Richie argued. “We can just agree that we got rid of It for good. I wouldn’t mind getting in touch with everyone, but I’m not—” He cut himself off. “I’m not going through that again.”

“I don’t want to either,” Eddie replied. “But I almost feel like we need to. We must have found each other again for a reason.”

“Maybe it was just so we could reconnect,” Richie offered. He switched into his Irish Cop voice. “Just two old school chums, t’ain’t it so? Catchin’ up on years past.”

Eddie put a hand on Richie’s arm. “This isn’t a joke.”

Richie met Eddie’s eyes. “I know. But I don’t see how letting everyone else know about this will be beneficial. Our brains probably just blocked out all the memories because they were  _ traumatic _ , Eddie. We went through trauma, and this is just the brain’s response.”

“That doesn’t explain why we didn’t recognize each other at all until I said ‘Derry’ to you.”

“Can we just not talk about this?” Richie was aware that he was acting childishly. Eddie was right. The room was cold on his skin, after the hot shower he just took. Richie felt the werewolf’s breath on the back of his neck, he saw his own body in a boy-sized coffin. His contacts out and his clunky glasses on, it was like 1989 was coming back to bite him in the ass. He shook his head, making the terry-cloth of the towel brush against Eddie’s shoulder.

“You were the one who wanted me to come over here and talk about it.”

Eddie’s hand was still on Richie’s arm.

Richie’s mouth was on Eddie’s. 

Eddie straightened in alarm, but only briefly. His glasses bumped into Richie’s as he deepened the kiss. After a few soft pecks, Richie pushed his tongue into Eddie’s mouth. He pulled him closer. When they came apart, Richie’s hand was on the small of Eddie’s back, and the towel on his head had lost its twist, and was hanging lopsided on the right side of Richie’s head. He took his hand from Eddie’s back, yanked the towel off his head, and threw it on the floor. Though the two men remained sitting close to one another, they did not meet each other’s eye.

“That was uncalled for,” Richie said in a low voice. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I, uh, don’t mind. I didn’t mind at all.” Eddie was stammering slightly, and adjusting his wire frames. He was the soft, diminutive man with Richie in the hotel room. But inside was that scared thirteen year old. Richie saw with sudden clarity the lack of intimacy in Eddie’s life. That wasn’t why he kissed him, though.

“Aren’t you married, mushmouth?” Richie asked, his cheeks suddenly flaring bright red. “You should mind!”

“Why are you mad, Rich? I’m not the one that kissed you.”

“I—” He started angrily, but then stopped himself. He deflated. “I’m sorry.”

“Why did you kiss me?” Eddie asked softly. “Are you just playing around with me?”

“What? No!” Richie put his hands on Eddie again. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just, I’m overwhelmed. You’re like… my anchor.”

“Beep beep,” Eddie said, a little weakly. He looked overwhelmed.

Richie laughed. “Too corny? First time I’ve seen you in over twenty years, and I’m already trying to sweet talk you.”

“I’m married, Richie.”

“Do you love her?”

“Of course!” Eddie said indignantly. After a pointed look from Richie, he didn’t balk. “I wouldn’t do anything like that to her.”

“I’m only in town for one night,” Richie pointed out. “And then I’m visiting my parents.”

“Are you suggesting a one night stand, and then going on to visit your parents the next day?” Eddie didn’t sound offended by the idea, but Richie still doubted he would go for it.

“Making assumptions, Eds?” Richie smiled. Then he contorted his face in sorrow, and let out a dramatic sob. “I just want to spend s-s-some quality time with my childhood best friend!”

“Can it,” Eddie said. He put a hand on the side of Richie’s face. It felt almost as if he was testing the waters. Richie leaned into his hand, and once again looped one of his long arms around Eddie’s waist. Maybe it should have felt weird, being like this with one of the boys he grew up with. But maybe that was the appeal. Eddie was almost familiar as Richie was to himself. They had both struggled with their sexualities while being teenagers in the 90’s. Richie would call himself bisexual, but it seemed like Eddie had declared himself a whole-hog straight man, with the wife to prove it. But what Eddie did next was not something a straight man would do.

This time, Eddie initiated the kiss. With Eddie’s mouth on his own, Richie wondered how he held up to Eddie’s wife, Myra. Richie was all angles. A past lover had compared his body to a bag of wire coat hangers. He wondered if Myra was soft under Eddies hands. Did Myra wrap her arms around Eddie as he was doing? Did she pass an appreciative hand over his bottom? Did husband and wife whisper sweet nothings to each other, into mouths and against cheeks? Were he Myra, would Eddie still be kissing along his jaw and neck, leaving marks along his collar bone? Could Myra make Eddie groan as she nibbled on his lips? Did Myra want to grind against her husband as he pressed his chest into hers? Did Eddie get this excited when he kissed his wife good night?

Richie felt Eddie, through the latter’s dark jeans and through his sweatpants. Richie put a hand on Eddie’s thigh. The room felt quiet. Richie’s head had been a riot of past memories and current sensations, but now all he felt was Eddie’s hot breath on his neck, and his own hand on his thigh. 

“May I?” he asked, a little breathily. He resisted the urge to wet his lips with his tongue, and just looked at Eddie.

Eddie pressed his head into the crook of Richie’s neck. He shook his head no.

“No. I can’t. I can’t do that to Myra.”

“That’s fine,” Richie said. “That’s fine.” He leaned his head against Eddie’s, and breathed in the scent of his hair. Eddie was wearing some kind of expensive-smelling cologne. “Do you want to stop?”

“You were the only ones I ever loved,” Eddie murmured into Richie’s neck. He kissed the skin along the collar of his tee shirt.

“I’m sorry we forgot you,” Richie said. Taking care, he pulled Eddie into his lap. “We can just stay like this.”

“I loved you,” Eddie said. He continued to suck on Richie’s neck, like he was a teenager. Like he was making up for lost time. He slid a hand up the back of Richie’s shirt, tracing patterns with his finger on the somewhat damp skin.

Richie sighed into Eddie’s hair. It hadn’t been too long for him, but it had been a little bit. He could feel himself getting worked up into the state Eddie was in. He nosed at Eddie so he could pay some attention to his mouth, rather than his neck. He smiled into the kiss as Eddie shoved his tongue into his mouth. He put his own hands up the back of Eddie’s sweater. As soon as he started tracing the divot of Eddie’s hips, however, he started shaking. In an instant, Eddie was extricating himself from Richie’s grasp. Richie was left on the bed alone, his lap suddenly cold.

“I can’t. I can’t,” he kept repeating. He pulled on the coat he had left on the TV stand, shaking his head. He was pacing, putting his hands up to his hair. He breathed a deep breath out violently. “Fuck,” he said.

“Eddie—” Richie started to stand up.

“It isn’t right.”

“I’m sorry.”

Eddie walked quickly to the door. Richie sprung up after him. He grabbed at Eddie’s arm before he could turn the door handle.

“I’m afraid I won’t remember you, Eds,” he said softly. His words shook as they left his mouth.

Richie pulled Eddie towards him, and Eddie allowed himself to be guided.

“Maybe that’s for the better,” he said. He hadn’t grown much since junior high. His head fit perfectly under Richie’s chin when they were standing up. “You’ll probably forget It, too. You can go back to being a big, hotshot podcaster.”

“And you can go back to driving around big, hotshot podcasters,” Richie said with a laugh. 

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Richie bent his head to kiss Eddie again. Eddie walked him forward, so that his back hit the wall. It was cold through his tee shirt. They kissed fiercely, Eddie biting on his lips, hard. The  _ remember me _ was felt, not said. 

Eddie walked out of the hotel room without a goodbye.

* * *

 

When Richie woke up, he had a swollen lip. He woke up because his mother was calling him. He picked up the phone.

“Hi, ma,” he said. “Yeah, I’m leaving the hotel within the next thirty minutes. Yeah, I’ll let you know when I’m on the road. I love you. Yes. I love you. Goodbye, ma.”

He went to the bathroom to empty his bladder. He inspected his swollen lip in the mirror, and spotted along with it dark spots along his jaw, on his neck, and on his collar bone.

“Gee,” he said to his reflection. He adopted his Kinky Briefcase, Sexy Accountant voice. “Either we had a lot of fun last night, or I need to go see a dermatologist.”

**Author's Note:**

> i think eddie patenting and then selling the rights to some uber/rideshare app is more realistic than him owning the luxury driver company in 2016 but.... this was a better meet cute i think haha  
> i actually do my own history podcast and just kind of slapped that in the fic, which is why there’s some mentions of hippos and boyscouts haha  
> thanks for reading! comments are always appreciated :~)


End file.
